


Shuttles and Butterfly Nets

by 12drakon, Okkkay



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Faction Relationships, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Ethics, Hacking, Interrogation, M/M, Mindfrag, Prisoner of War, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys, Spies & Secret Agents, Torture, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/12drakon/pseuds/12drakon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okkkay/pseuds/Okkkay
Summary: Mirage and Blast Off are nobles and occasional lovers with peculiar tastes. They continue to meet while their political groups turn into the Autobot and Decepticon factions, whose disagreements slide into civil war. When Blast Off is captured, Mirage interrogates him, with a planet and their relationship at stake. The interrogation darkly reflects the lovers’ berthroom adventures; Red Alert can’t stand to watch, but Jazz is another story.





	1. Shuttles

**Author's Note:**

> We will post chapters on Wednesdays. In this AU, Cybertron is less slagged by the war than in G1. Autobots and Decepticons travel to Earth for resources, but maintain their bases on Cybertron. 
> 
> Big thanks to [dragonofdispair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair/works) and [ultharkitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty/works) for beta and discussions, and to [FHC_Lynn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FHC_Lynn/pseuds/FHC_Lynn/works) and [Rizobact](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact/works) for chapter comments.
> 
> Kinkmeme prompt: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=15353237#t15353237

Mirage sprawled at the top of an observation spire. He balanced on a balustrade, his back to a column and one leg dangling as if over the armrest of his favorite chair at a pre-war Towers club. A dizzying distance below was the polity of Tarn.

That is, all of Tarn that remained at this stage of the four-million year war. Far below, tiny mechs went about their daily business, picking their way with practiced ease among the yet-uncleared debris of freshly sabotaged buildings, unaware of the invisible Autobot spy. Mirage was sure even Soundwave didn’t know of this hideout.

Speak of Unicron! There was the Decepticon intelligence director, by the entrance to a library. A former library. Soundwave was guiding a caravan of fliers inside, all with heavy, carefully wrapped loads in their undercarriages.

A weapons depot? Mirage sighed as he admired the library’s neo-Vosian colonnade, marked the building for the next Autobot attack, zoomed in to record mech traffic around it, and let his mind wander. His Tower had stood at the heart of Crystal City, the club occupying the Tower’s penthouse, and his favorite chair facing the club’s floor-to-ceiling window. He’d met many a sunrise there while a party was winding down, nursing an exotic drink, his frame at post-overload peace, his optics feasting on the delicate dance of light among glittering spires, clever hyperbolic rooftops, and precious-metal mosaics. He’d already left the place for Iacon and the Autobots by the time his chair, his club, his tower, and most of Crystal City had perished overnight under Decepticon incendiary bombs. The decay of Tarn had been more gradual, the Autobots trying to minimize civilian casualties, Mirage watching and guiding attacks from this very spire.

The spy wondered what the Autobots might be doing right now. Six days ago he’d intercepted a piece of Decepticon conversation:

> _\- Have you secured the shipment? I heard the ‘Bots bombed another slaggin’ warehouse._
> 
> _\- Yes sir! Shockwave’s ore is packed and ready._
> 
> _\- And fuel for the shuttle?_
> 
> _\- Arranged. He can restock at Messatine. I estimated the travel time at…_
> 
> _\- Wait, what channel is this? Unicron frag me in the…_

That had been all Mirage had caught. Shockwave’s involvement meant experiments, and him arranging a shipment meant that somewhere beyond Messatine, a planet was about to die.

The Autobots had scrambled to make plans. Mirage had tried to give the officers tips about handling a shuttle, but Red Alert had sent him away mid-meeting with a hastily made-up mission. Jazz and Optimus Prime exchanged surprised glances, but wouldn’t override the security officer’s orders, not to spare Mirage’s feelings, nor even to obtain insider data he had been willing to share. And what were they up to now? Had they installed the energy-triggered net? Had they captured the shipment, and the Decepticon shuttle tasked with delivering it?

No way to ask now, not with his electro-disruptor active. If the Autobots sent him a message, he could receive it (they hadn’t). The device took incoming waves on all frequencies: light, sound, EM - and made one copy to pass to Mirage so that he could see, hear, and sense, and another copy to emit on his other side, creating the illusion Mirage wasn’t there. But the disruptor completely blocked anything Mirage emitted. Tarn was too tightly covered by Soundwave’s surveillance; even a tiny window for a long-range comm would compromise a secret agent. Hacking into a hardline wasn’t an option either: the Autobots never risked hardlines anywhere near their secret headquarters.

He would arrive at HQ soon enough: a few more kliks of gathering data, then two hours of racing. It would be half that time if he could have driven as the Seekers flew, rather than dodging acid lakes, radioactive craters, and scraplet-infested heaps of rubble that had replaced many parts of the Tarn-Iacon superhighway. At least, Mirage thought darkly, he could race at full speed: the war had depopulated the road of both traffic and traffic police.

He told himself he shouldn’t worry. What little he knew of the plan was solid, and Optimus Prime was a leader who got things done. Mirage had learned to trust his superior and their team long vorns ago. The Autobots had mostly stopped accusing him of treasonous intent by now. Mostly.

Mirage had gathered enough data on the library, and Soundwave had apparently moved on to his next task. The spy pulled out his favorite cut-crystal cube (just mid-grade, since he was on duty, with spicy compound additives) and jacked into a cable under the parapet. The convenient bundle of cables was one of the reasons he favored this observation spot. He casually entered a Decepticon network through a fresh proxy. So, Astrotrain had been experiencing cargo overweight issues again? Scrap-headed vintage drone! He wondered why the Decepticons would trust him with a rusty bolt, let alone precious ores. And apparently, Motormaster couldn't resist a fight with the Aerialbots that morning. Now he was at the Helican Repair Bay with injuries the medic on duty described as, ‘ _Fall damage and rear midsection burns._ ’ Translation: the ‘Bots dropped him from up high and then shot him in the aft. Fully deserved, young idiot.

It wasn't like Mirage disdained all 'Cons, far from it. Some he found intriguing, and a rare few fascinated him. And there was one who meant more than Mirage’s entire noble heritage to him, although he had decided not to tell the other mech. Not while they were at war.

Mirage savored the last, sweetest drops of his drink, subspaced the cube, then disconnected and packed his cable. Time to go.

***

Red Alert drove into their underground HQ’s command center so fast the sliding door nicked his back spoiler on both sides. He only just caught Optimus Prime telling Jazz, “Mirage should be back from the mission any klik,” then the two jumped out of Red Alert’s way as he transformed and turned to face them, already sparking at the antennae.

“We, we are late! All is lost. It’s gone, it’s the wrong shuttle, and Mirage!..” His helm was dropping sparks, and light smoke wafted up through his vents.

“I gather you have captured the shuttle. Good,” said Optimus, firmly and slowly. Just hearing his voice, his measured praise, and behind that his care was enough to (albeit temporarily) anchor Red Alert in the world of reason. He also felt grateful for a cube of coolant Jazz silently gave him. Red Alert sipped some of it, then tried to emulate Prime’s slow speech and to make his words make sense.

“We followed Prowl’s plan to the glyph. Steps one oh one through two oh seven worked perfectly. We waited for the change of guard, Bumblebee snuck in and set the energon net trap, and we hid nearby to wait for the departure. We waited and waited, but Astrotrain never came!”

Red Alert sparked some more at that, and saw Jazz making the drinking gesture. More coolant helped, and the chief of security continued: “I thought Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were discussing me over cables they had plugged, but then they… Well, they were doing something else!”

Jazz chuckled and shook his head.

Optimus prompted, straight-faced, “You mentioned the wrong shuttle?”

“Two hours later, Optimus. We had almost decided to leave by then. Stage three of the plan went all wrong. It was Blast Off and not Astrotrain. He was landing and not leaving! He must have left right when Mirage told us of the mission…”

“But ya got him, right?” said Jazz, fidgeting and almost dancing in place, as if impatient to burst into action.

“Blast Off is in the brig. The twins are too.”

At this news Optimus covered his face with his hand using just a bit too much force, but the loud smack was the only sign of his frustration.

Jazz growled: “Does anyone need a medic?” Red Alert shrugged, and Jazz jabbed his wrist comm: “Ratchet and First Aid to brig. Check everybody there.”

Optimus frowned, put an arm on Jazz’s shoulder to comfort him, and said: “Bumblebee would call for help if it were urgent.”

Red Alert snapped: “You should worry less about a ‘Con and two trouble-makers, and more about billions of aliens about to die!”

Optimus looked like he was going to say something when the doors slid open and then shut again. There was no one in sight. The security director pointed an accusing finger at the empty space by the door. “Mirage! You gave us the wrong intel on purpose, I just know it. Were you hoping to save your buddy?”

“What are you talking about, Red? Please do elaborate,” the disembodied voice, more tired than irritated, was too close, making the security director turn with a jump. When the spy fully appeared, he was behind Jazz and Optimus, as if using the mechs Red Alert trusted as a shield.


	2. New Options

Jazz was sure he kept his face straight, but Optimus frowned, as if he could feel Jazz’s would-be cheerful grin, somehow transmitted in the plain-text radio message his third in command sent behind the security director’s back.

:: _We should decide what to do about the twins. We can’t just keep them in the brig like criminals for trying to help,_ :: read the text.

:: _If they cannot behave like the Autobots around prisoners, then they shouldn't be allowed near one, and besides, should have a time-out to contemplate what it means to be an Autobot,_ :: the faction leader stated.

Jazz crossed his arms over his bumper, and swallowed back a few comments that he knew would be unwelcome. He didn’t know what the twins had done, but he was sure that he had done worse to the Decepticons when the Prime wasn’t looking. Yet he was never stupid enough to hack a source this close to HQ. The twins were reckless and short-sighted, as usual. :: _Well, they only had the interest of innocents in mind when they tried to beat some truth out of him,_ :: Jazz managed.

He couldn’t come up with a more creative defense with Red Alert throwing a tirade mixed with sparks right between him and his Prime. Enemy prisoners were held in the brig with comm dampeners, but not misbehaving Autobots, so Jazz pinged Sideswipe to get his side of the story.

“Mirage, you had to know Blast Off would depart earlier with the Ore! Or was it you who warned him to evade our trap?” Red Alert took a few menacing steps forward, as if Jazz and Optimus weren’t in front of Mirage, and almost bounced off the higher-ranking officers.

Off his leader, his Prime, no less. Jazz was impressed.

Unabashed, Red Alert continued, “You withheld information so that he could deliver the Death Ore to some unknown planet beyond the Rikta Quadrant! I hope you're happy now, knowing your beloved's cargo is slowly killing innocents somewhere you don't have to see!”

“Red Alert, _please_.”

It was as if the security director just noticed Optimus Prime in front of him. “Sorry, Prime.” Red Alert averted his optics, then renewed his glare at Mirage. “I only want to do my duty.”

“We all only want to do our duty.” Optimus glanced around, clearly including Mirage in that _we_. His reassuring words seemed to calm Red Alert a little. Jazz was glad it worked; it didn’t always. “We all are Autobots, and we don't want others to suffer from Megatron's greed, no matter how little we know about them.”

“Not little - nothin’! We don't even know who they are, where they live, or why their planet is important to the ‘Cons,” Jazz supplied.

Mirage displayed no visible reactions to Red Alert’s accusations. If anything, his face became more blankly neutral. _Nobles_ , Jazz thought with a measure of professional frustration. _Nobles are the Pit to spy on!_ But Mirage was _his_ noble, and now - his hope to save the entire planet.

Jazz continued, “Mirage, if this were Astrotrain, I’d interrogate him, and it’d be easy, the weak fool he is. Whom our net caught… Yer the one mech who might hold the key to that mission. We’re still workin’ out the details, but in short: instead of capturin’ Astrotrain at the coordinates you’ve gained, we found Blast Off. By the chemicals in his cargo hold, he musta been carryin’ the Death Ore not so long ago. Sunny and Swipes have attempted to hack him for the navigation data from his logs. Him with Combaticon trainin’ and firewalls, ya can guess how well that went! I’m better at it than they are, but even without worryin’ about the Autobot Code, and we must _here_ ,” he said pointedly, “I dunno if I could get intel in time. That’s where you come in.”

Red Alert began, “Now, wait a…” but fell mute under a look from Optimus.

Optimus turned that look on Jazz, surprise and worry written plain on his face, then glanced at Mirage, as if to check whether the spy would object or fall apart at his commander’s suggestion. Not seeing any reaction at all, he nodded and said, “I realize it will be difficult. You can refuse the assignment, and I will understand. But I have great faith in you, Mirage. We are aware of your dislike towards other species, but I'm also convinced you are a great Autobot who holds our values dear. If anyone can make Blast Off tell us where his destination was, it is you. If anyone can make it happen fast enough, it is you. An entire planet could be dying as we talk."

:: _Appreciate the support, chief,_ :: Jazz sent to the Prime.

There was a pause, then, “Yes, sir,” was all Mirage said in response.

***

Mirage entered the brig with his disruptor on, more to conceal his own reactions than to spy on the mechs there. The giant ceiling light and large lamps built into every cell were too bright and had too-full spectra of waves. They weren’t designed for live mechs’ comfort, but for the numerous sensors and monitors Red Alert had installed everywhere.

Yet the Lamborghini twins seemed comfortable enough. The unruly pair had been spending so much time in the brig that it probably felt like their spare quarters. Sideswipe was drawing some coolant from a dispenser, awkward with his right arm in a brace and a sling. Sunstreaker lay in the next cell over, recharging on his back, the glass panels gone from his chest, and a large fresh weld crossing his abdomen. He looked strangely endearing, his face relaxed without his habitual snarl, his frame seeming small in the middle of the standard brig berth fit for a triple-changer.

Of course, in such a case the cell would have many more defensive mechanisms activated in addition to the plain steel bars on three sides. After all, the twins would only break out as a prank, and that had grown old a long time ago. But the other two cells in the general area showed no energon grille, no comm disruptor fields, no floor magnets… No Blast Off. Mirage’s spark constricted. If the twins were that hurt, what must have happened to their restrained captive?

The Combaticon had to be in the highest-security solitary cell, locked behind two sets of armored doors. Mirage stepped around the guard station console. Bumblebee sat in front of the monitors in the guard’s chair; beside him, Ratchet was packing up his toolbox. “First Aid will bring and install those glass panels in a few hours,” said the medic, and added with a huff, “I’ll tell Optimus not to let the twins out until then. Maybe this way Sunstreaker’s weld will hold, for a change.”

Mirage looked at the monitors, and there Blast Off was, making the high-security cell seem small around his bulk. Thank Primus, he was sitting up. His wounds couldn’t be all that bad. The spy was so glad of his invisibility. Too many optics of highly trained specialists would have been drilling into him otherwise - Bumblebee and Ratchet here, and Red Alert and Jazz at the monitors. Even with his training, it would have been hard to hide his worry - or his pride for his lover, who had taken on two frontliners while handcuffed, yet was able to stay vertical after that. With worry and pride came the inevitable wave of shame. Mirage wasn’t friends with the twins, but they were on his side. Blast Off was supposed to be an enemy. _Was_ an enemy. Endangering billions of sentients.

With that thought, Mirage braced himself for what he had to do. He snuck back out, beyond the brig’s outer door, and turned around to pretend he’d just arrived. He replaced worries and fears on his face with the well-practiced haughty mask, and turned his electro-disruptor off. Mirage walked into the brig, making his steps noisy to announce himself.

He forced his voice to sound _normal_ \- measured, cultured, and disinterested: “Greetings, Bumblebee. Ratchet. I am here to interrogate the Decepticon prisoner.”


	3. Spare Thyself

“Say it. Say it, Red Alert, loud and clear, I want to hear it!” Jazz said, voice way too excited for the circumstances.

Red Alert thought the saboteur sounded as if he had just single-handedly won their whole civil war, not a bet on how long Mirage would linger in the brig invisible to most (not all) of their sensors.

Jazz’s inordinate pride wasn’t worth discussing, Red Alert decided. If Jazz wished to distract himself from his friend’s predicament, Red Alert would cover for him. He’d covered worse. It was time to focus on the interrogation.

Red Alert ex-vented in one of his routine patterns, learned by spark from a self-control manual, and said the silly phrase, stressing the silliest part just like the saboteur had demonstrated: “Jazz is _da best!”_

Jazz grinned for a few more nanokliks, then his face grew serious, and his agile fingers began to dance over the bottom of their giant screen, over the controls that adjusted the surveillance equipment in the high-security cell. This always reminded Red Alert of humans playing the style of music the saboteur had selected for his name in English. He’d kept wanting to ask if Jazz had noticed that similarity too, but other things had always seemed more important.

Watching the faces of Mirage and Blast Off for minute tells was more important right now.

Jazz turned off the feeds to Bumblebee’s console, and sent him a text message confirming he was taking over surveillance. Everything was being recorded, of course, for slow-motion cross-analysis. But the security director had to stay vigilant in real time. He didn’t know who’d cause the security breach: the powerful Decepticon they held, other enemies staging a rescue, or those (allegedly) in the Autobot ranks.

Red Alert trusted some mechs, in some ways, but none completely. Not Mirage, their unreliable spy turned interrogator; not Bumblebee, the minibot guard who might be conspiring with his Special Operations colleagues; not even Jazz, the Spec Ops leader next to him. Jazz would never betray the Autobots, but his clandestine operations meant he covered up some of his subordinates’ activities. Red Alert understood the necessity of looking the other way, but the relationship between Special Operations and security had always been complicated.

Red Alert noticed his helm tingling, about to throw sparks. He repeated the breathing exercise from before, then forced himself to just observe for now and not speculate.

On several frames within their screen, Blast Off remained sitting on his berth like he had been since Ratchet and First Aid patched him up. His helm leaned back against the wall. His light-tan shoulders and arms, dulled by a long space flight, were as relaxed as shackled hands allowed. His legs were comfortably spread, heels leaning on the edge of the berth, the insides of purple thrusters over his feet covered in a thin layer of combusted accelerants.

Then there were the marks of a hostile interrogation.

Mirage closed and carefully locked the outer door behind him. Blast Off, hearing the noise, sat up even straighter, probably bracing himself. Mirage checked and re-checked the locks, as if making a show of it for the cameras, Red Alert thought, and only then opened the inner door.

Red Alert froze and saw Jazz freeze too, their optics glued to the frame with Blast Off’s life-sized face. Red Alert thought the Decepticon’s optics turned a little brighter, his lips curved up in the barest hint of a smile, and he tilted his helm as if to see better, but that was that.

“Fraggin’ nobles,” muttered Jazz, clearly frustrated at the lack of visible clues.

Mirage locked the inner door and was re-checking the locks for the third time. His helm was lowered and thus his expression not visible. Jazz whispered, “Quit stallin’, mech!”

As if he’d heard, Mirage turned around, and Jazz had one of the cell’s many cameras zoom at the spy. Red Alert watched hungrily, but only saw the usual haughty, blank, and undeniably pretty mask that was Mirage’s face.

Mirage’s voice was as smooth as his expression: “Greetings, Blast Off.” His optics moved up and down Blast Off’s frame and his lip plates pressed together tight, but when he continued, his voice was level: “I am sorry you were hurt. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Mirage.” Blast Off sounded glad as he said the name, then his voice turned hard. “Spare me that Autobot drivel. Why are you here?”

If Mirage felt anything, his face wasn’t showing it, but his voice turned steely as well: “I am here to find out the coordinates of your last cargo delivery.”

Blast Off scoffed without ire, his words more a friendly tease than a hostile goad: “You? But you are the worst interrogator on the planet. Worse than the stupid groundkisser twins.” He turned his cuffed hands palms up in a mock-exasperated gesture, shaking his head at the very idea. Both his thumbs and several fingers were in medical braces.

Jazz tapped the screen to freeze a frame, then tapped again over the detail he wanted Red Alert to see: Mirage clenching his left hand into a fist so tight he must have dented his palm plating.

“Wait,” Blast Off said, and the two Autobot officers once again focused on the live screen showing his face. At least Ratchet had taken their prisoner’s visor and disabled his battle mask (in addition to his comm unit and weapon controls), so the observers got to see his frown, and the way his purple optics dimmed in suspicion. “If you are here officially, if they have sent you” - he glanced up at the ceiling, as if pointing at the invisible mechs behind the cameras - “then they must know. About us.” Blast Off angrily bit off his next question, “How long?”

When Mirage answered, he sounded totally calm, in eerie contrast to his lover’s anger. Red Alert figured this part of the exchange had been certain to happen, and thus was predictable to the spy. Mirage must had rehearsed his reply, “Jazz has always known. He convinced me to inform Red Alert before he inevitably found out for himself. Red Alert would not hide intel from Optimus Prime, so we have told him as well. These three, yes, they know. Nobody else.”

“Hurry it up, mech,” Jazz muttered, fidgeting in his chair, as if he wanted to get out and push a stalling car.

Blast Off drawled, and there was nothing friendly left in his cold and disdainful tone: “What, pray tell, do the Autobot officers hope will happen? If they allow you to continue our meetings, they must know we don’t kiss and tell, in all the meanings of ‘tell’. Do they think I will talk if you only ask prettily?”

Mirage’s voice was flat, controlled: “No, others don’t have _this_ hope. Only I do. Please, Blast Off. I am asking you _prettily_ , as you say. We both appreciate aesthetics.” He chuckled without mirth. “I know you don’t have much love for aliens, but you don’t have a chunk of asteroid ice for a spark either. You can’t approve the mass slaughter of sentients.”

Jazz hissed: “Lectures never work!”

But Mirage quickly wrapped that part up, “So here is my proposition. Let’s just pretend-play as if I have already applied all the enhanced interrogation techniques that you, a tough Decepticon, would require to be convinced. It shouldn’t be that hard to imagine. We’ve played out interrogation scenes often enough.”

Blast Off stiffened and glanced at the spot where he thought the ceiling camera was. Red Alert asked suspiciously, “Jazz, did you know about that part?” and the saboteur shook his head, looking… impressed? Intrigued? Red Alert could not understand what Jazz’s crooked grin meant, and filed it for later analysis.

Mirage pulled a data cable out of his wrist and continued: “I can plant false memories into your data banks, in case someone checks. Modify some of our imagery from before. You know I am good enough at hacking to do that, if you don’t fight.” His voice turned hopeful, “So why don’t I plug in now, you send me your navigation data, and I will cover it all up. We’ll save that planet, then stage an escape for you, and everything will be back to normal. It’s the most sensible and civilized thing to do.”

Blast Off didn’t reply for almost a klik. He lowered his head and dimmed his optics; his frame was very still, except for minute twitches of his mangled fingers. _Time_ \- they had no time for long contemplation, Red Alert thought.

Mirage must have thought that too; he asked, quietly, hopefully, “Blast Off? What do you think?”

“I think...” Blast Off began slowly.

He paused, looked Mirage in the optics, and smiled. It was the kind of come-hither smile that made Red Alert think their prisoner and their interrogator would be kissing next. He wished they wouldn’t. Usually he didn’t mind it at all when his surveillance caught Autobots making out and even interfacing. But anything with a Decepticon, with a prisoner, in the brig… Disgusting!

Red Alert heard a sudden whoosh: Jazz’s cooling fans turned on. The saboteur had the same unreadable crooked grin on his face as before. Huh.

Mirage sagged in relief, smiled at his lover, and took a step forward, data cable at the ready.

“I think,” Blast Off repeated in a pleasant tone, “That you should go interface yourself with that data cable in your own exhaust pipe, Autobot slagger.”

Mirage gasped and staggered toward the door, as if to flee. He stood there, one hand covering his face, while Blast Off looked on, his smile now bitter and triumphant. “This is,” his tone turned cold and mocking, “ _my_ proposition. I hope you appreciate its aesthetics.”

But in half a klik, the smile slipped, replaced by a somber, sad frown. “Mirage,” called Blast Off quietly, and when the other didn’t react, repeated louder, but still in a gentle tone, “Mirage, listen!”

It took a while more for Mirage to react, but when he lowered his hand, his face was impassive, an expression of polite attention. “Yes?” he said levelly.

“Do you think it matters to Megatron if I talk with or without torture?” Blast Off chuckled. “Even if he doesn’t learn the truth, which he will. But let’s suppose you’ve somehow plugged the holes in your base’s security.”

Red Alert jumped, and Jazz whispered, “He’s bluffing.”

Red Alert didn’t know if Jazz was just saying it to calm him down. The saboteur did cast a covert glance at other monitors, as if expecting to see a spy materialize from Blast Off’s words. Red Alert felt his sensor horns sparking, but this interrogation was the top priority for now. He breathed in a measured pattern, activated a limited-use subroutine he saved for emergencies to suppress the mounting processor ache, then forced himself to focus.

“As you said, we Decepticons are supposed to be tough,” Blast Off drawled with an ironic sneer. Red Alert hated Mirage’s stand-offish attitude toward the Autobots; and here was his lover, mocking his own faction. The two were worth one another for their questionable loyalties! Red Alert almost told Jazz to take over, but then Blast Off continued, “Any of us is expected to withstand whatever the soft-sparked Autobots can dish out, at least for a paltry two days.”

Jazz pushed a console button, and the Command Center appeared on one of the screens. Two officers turned to their monitor, receiving the signal. Jazz quickly said, “Optimus, Prowl, ya there? We’ve got a time limit. Have Skyfire and the squad hurry to Messatine and then stand at the ready. It’s only two days.”

Red Alert saw Optimus nod his acknowledgement, and added, “Messatine is a dangerous place for Autobots. Don’t land, don’t engage, stay at a distant orbit!”

Jazz killed the comm. and muttered, “That’s somethin’, Mirage, keep him talkin’.”

Mirage’s face thawed a little, and keep talking Blast Off did, the sneer gone. “Indeed, I can cope, but can _you_? I know it will be worse for you than for me. You don’t swing that way, Mirage! Why don’t _you_ pretend you have already tried, what do you call them - ‘ _enhanced interrogation techniques_ ’ - and I have resisted long enough?”

Red Alert hissed, “They are such good buddies!” but Jazz shook his head. For his answer to Blast Off, Mirage pointedly looked up at one of the ceiling cameras.

Blast Off nodded and said, “Right, you can’t do that, so just let someone else take your place. Back in the day, you could never cope when you needed to cause suffering. Pit, you even had hard time with our little tie-up play at first, and that was as tame as a newsparked petrorabbit!”

Red Alert sighed: he really didn’t want to know.

Jazz sighed too, but… differently. Then he said, “Interestin’. Does Blast Off really care? Or is he tryin’ to remove Mirage, ‘cause he’s afraid Mirage will succeed?”

Red Alert shrugged, and pointed at the monitor, where Mirage retorted. It looked like he was trying to sound indignant, but it came out embarrassed,“Well, we have practiced, haven’t we? The war’s given me plenty of practice too. I will manage to make you suffer, if I think it will prevent much more suffering.” His voice became quieter when he added, pointing at Blast Off’s hands, “Or if I think that others will make you suffer more.”

Blast Off replied, tone dry, “Well, I would wish you good luck, except it is useless. I am not just a Decepticon, I am a Combaticon. We have more than sufficient training for this. You should know better, Mirage. You worked with us before the Detention Center. Before you betrayed us.”

Jazz rolled the recording of Mirage back, zoomed in, and tweaked the volume to the maximum. The spy barely flinched and his lips hardly moved, but through the mess of venting, engine, and other ambient noises, Red Alert heard what he whispered: “I did not.”

If Blast Off noticed, he didn’t react, just continued, “Besides, you know about the loyalty code Megatron had installed. That is not a secret. You,” he paused to ex-vent heavily, “you have even seen what it does when triggered.”

This time, Mirage winced very visibly, and Blast Off pushed on, angry and dismissive, “What, you just forgot that little thing? That’s why you are a rubbish interrogator - you ignore the details! And, not that I care anymore, that’s why you are an inattentive lover! How can you do a scene well if you don’t pay attention?”

Jazz jumped up from his chair and said, “That’s it, we don’t have time for their little dramas! I’m goin’ in - and we need a Plan B too!” He turned to leave, but Red Alert caught him by his hand and pointed at the monitors. Mirage was gone from all the screens except one, tuned to just the right narrow band of the wavelengths, where there was a shimmering green silhouette by the door. His electro-disruptor was on.

Blast Off jumped to his feet and bellowed, “And a coward! Here I am, in your brig in handcuffs, and you’re the one hiding!”

Red Alert saw their prisoner glancing wildly around the cell, so indignant he was shaking.

But ‘indignant’ apparently wasn’t how Jazz read the situation, because he said, “Look at that. Finally! Blast Off is scared.” He pulled out of Red Alert’s grip to rub his hands together, and plopped down into his chair.

“Isn’t he in a rage?” objected Red Alert.

Jazz nodded, “That too.” And drawled, “Yes, makes sense. Anythin’ that reminds him of the loss of a sensor? His self-control takes a hit. Must be a side effect from the spark-detention. Mirage sure knows what he’s doin’.”


	4. On Hold

Jazz’s trust in Mirage’s competency was again sorely tested when he saw the spy exit the room, bang the door closed and lock it, then do the same to the outer door.

Blast Off visibly relaxed, that bitter disappointed smirk still playing on his face, as if to say, ‘Giving up already, lover?’

Switching to the cameras outside of the brig, Jazz saw the shimmering silhouette lean its head against the wall. His back visibly moved as Mirage cycled several deep vents.

In half a klik, Mirage went back. When the inner door opened again, the green shimmer stayed in the small space between two doors, but Blast Off began to hyperventilate and glance all around the room, as he did before. He made a pointedly loud, exasperated sigh, played his shoulders to ease the cricks in his neck cables, and then reclined on one elbow in a more relaxed pose.

Jazz tapped the heat-sensing monitor to show Red Alert how active Blast Off’s frame really was. “Still scared.”

Mirage banged the door closed, staying on the outside - but Blast Off couldn’t see that. He wildly glanced around before taking control of himself and pretending to relax. On the infrared monitor, his frame gradually brightened, like the heating spiral in a quaint light source - the charge he couldn’t control running up.

Mirage opened the outer door, exited, and closed it - without making any sound, not even a whoosh of disrupted air.

Surprised by the soundlessly opened door, Bumblebee jumped up and pulled out his blaster on pure reflex. He must have sent the panic code too; Jazz turned off the blaring alert. But then, as his Spec Ops training dictated, the minibot guard took a nanoklik to assess the situation. He didn’t activate the floor magnets or any of the other nasty surprises for a would-be escapee, but nodded his understanding and sat down. “Hello, Mirage.”

Mirage didn’t answer.

Bumblebee was already shooting sneaky ‘Cons in a strat sim on his console. The closest thing to trust within Jazz’s unit: pretending to turn the attention away from a clandestine colleague.

***

The next time Mirage turned visible, he was sitting on a narrow emergency escape catwalk attached to a weapons factory. Behind him was the gray humming bulk of the factory’s outer wall, under him, the locked entrance door. Five hundred metrics away, a low-altitude transport drone was making its final approach before landing.

He let the familiar sense of becoming ‘real’ take over him, soothe him, and reassure him. Then he looked up into the other mech’s optics. The sole mech for whom Mirage would go _anywhere_.

The truckformer four times the size of the noble had joined Mirage on this precarious perch for an informal chat, no questions asked. His heavy red and blue frame stood out against the boring gray wall like a gemstone stands out in a pile of scrap metal.

“No, you don’t understand, Optimus,” Mirage replied to an earlier question. “You are trying to understand, but I don’t think you can. It’s not that I simply tried to maintain my good relationship with the Combaticons. It should have been my _job_ to break them out of Senate custody before they could be removed from their frames. They had trusted me to do it.”

“But you failed?” Optimus Prime supposed.

“I didn’t even try.”

“Oh.”

“They… We got into some really nasty adventures together, in the past. The Golden Age gave quite some opportunities for that. It was a win-win situation, I had something more challenging than a turbofox hunt. They had a noble with an alibi to arrange cleaning up the mess afterwards. Killing Sherma was Onslaught’s idea, or maybe he made contact with someone who made a lavish offer. I never asked. All I cared was that I didn’t like Sherma either. Too late I noticed we’d got into a pit of slag much deeper than just one murder case. The lawyers got cold feet in the last moment, and… So did I. I feared for my reputation. All the time, Plan B was for them to admit anything in court, but keep my name clear so that I could free them later. They did their part.”

Mirage sighed. He fell silent, watching the transport drone until it landed, then continued. “I walked out of it pristine, my name unmentioned. I waited for the echoes to die down, so that I could go in for them. Only it was much worse than we expected. By the time I had the opportunity, they were all out of their frames, so I convinced myself it was too late. Whether I went in a day or a vorn after their sparks have been extracted made no difference, right? There was no way for them to feel the passing of time with their original chronos thrown away. But I did want to go back. I regret that I haven’t. And not just because they thought me traitor as soon as they realized what year it was after the Decepticons sprang them and gave them their new frames.”

“So, do you feel you are in their debt?” Optimus asked, words slow and measured.

“Not really, no. They would have gained nothing from dragging me along into the gutter. They didn’t lose anything with me staying out, and not much from the delays. But I did break my promise. Blast Off is the only one to stay on speaking terms with me, and I want to return some of that favor. Not debt, just favor,” he repeated, more to himself than to his leader.

A freeing distinction.

“Is that all, Mirage?” the Prime asked, doubt clear in his voice.

“It is all I am ready to tell,” Mirage said with his newfound determination. He didn’t owe Blast Off, so his hands were untied. “Twice as much as Jazz knows.”

“Then it is enough. You will do the right thing, Mirage.” Optimus nodded.

With that assurance of trust, Mirage retreated back into invisibility. Prime would only be able to see the ledge denting slightly and then springing back. These momentary tracks moved from their perch to an observation window, and then the spy was gone.

***

Mirage turned visible entering the brig, made his steps heavy to alert Bumblebee, then activated the disruptor again. This time, he operated both the outer and the inner doors silently - the moving door making the keyed-up Blast Off startle so hard he almost fell off the berth.

“Show yourself, you coward!” Blast Off bellowed, frantically waving his cuffed hands in front of him as if attacked by a swarm of scraplets. On the security screen, Jazz saw Mirage’s green silhouette stand aside, well out of reach.

And then he lunged, in a measured smooth move. Mirage grabbed the short bar connecting Blast Off’s left and right cuffs, jerked it up to the wall, and attached it there with a magna-strip.

Blast Off screamed, a strangely high sound, and kicked out with both feet. Mirage dodged in an effortless-looking move that, as Jazz knew well, took years of hand-to-hand combat practice. He stood well aside as Blast Off thrashed, trying to pry himself off the wall. The magna-strip was too strong even for a mech with good leverage, which Blast Off didn’t have with his hands over his head. The Decepticon gave up after a few tries.

“The pragmatic sort,” Jazz noted with professional approval. “He’s conserving his energy.”

Yet Blast Off couldn’t help but glance around constantly, even though he must have known full well there was no way to see through Mirage’s disruptor. His whole frame twitched, and his fans whirred at the highest setting. He gave up all pretense at calm, for the lost cause that it was.

“He’s not scared of restraints,” Jazz commented to Red Alert, who watched the screens with rapt attention. “He’s scared of losing his sensory input. What if…” he trailed off. If Mirage didn’t think of ramping up that pressure, Jazz would comm him later. He didn’t want to distract his subordinate.

Who, meanwhile, invisibly and soundlessly crouched by Blast Off’s right leg, pinned it to the bottom of the berth with a longer magna-strip, and then rolled aside before the shuttle could kick him with his left foot.

Blast Off did thrash anew, but he didn’t scream this time. He pulled his left knee up to his chest, to prevent Mirage from repeating the maneuver. The spy didn’t try that; instead, he lassoed the next magna-strip around Blast Off’s bent leg, shackling his ankle to his thigh.

Mirage stepped into the middle of the room, leaving Blast Off twitching in his restraints. The spy turned off the disruptor.

Blast Off ex-vented and sagged down in relief. He didn’t speak, his lips pressed together into a thin determined line.

“Now then,” Mirage said, voice flat and smooth, “remember this?” He pulled something out of his subspace. It was shaped like an elegant wide visor, but was crafted out of a solid thick chunk of golden metal.

Jazz zoomed in; the thing was engraved with an elaborate tessellating pattern, each intersection of lines set with a tiny, bright, clear crystal.

Blast Off straightened up as much as he could - tense, perfectly frozen.

“The safe word is the planet’s coordinates, _lover_ ,” Mirage drawled.


	5. Scare You More

Jazz had always been proud of his ability to direct anyone’s attention the way he wanted, but he’d never been prouder than now. Red Alert’s attention was tricky to manage on the best of days. With his security protocols already glitching, their invisible spy sneaking around, and the Decepticons he believed likely to rescue Blast Off before he talked? Yeah, great challenge!

As they watched the brig monitoring system, Jazz spotted movement in one of the monitors mounted on the wall. Here came his Plan B! The movement was in the secondary vents. Jazz watched it out of the corner of his visor, while Red Alert kept focusing on Mirage and Blast Off.

The moment Mirage pulled out the blindfold was perfect. Jazz could predict what was coming next: Mirage dragging out the anticipation to soften up his captive. He’d let Blast Off squirm, probably ask him some more innocent questions just to try and get him talking. All of that was enough to keep Red Alert’s attention on the odd couple, while Jazz...

It was a matter of simple telemetry and the remote control of the cooling system, and Jazz had the tiny lil’ Cassetticon spy trapped in the air pipes. Now to get the small mech out before anyone noticed the Autobot third in command crawling down the maintenance tubes.

“Be right back, gotta check somethin’ quick,” Jazz told Red Alert.

The security specialist glanced at him without visible suspicion - well, not above his normal level. Success! “A Special Operations call?” Red Alert asked.

“Yep. Gonna keep both optics on these two for me, right?”

Red Alert nodded, indeed not taking his optics off the monitor, and Jazz made his exit. He also sent a secured signal to stream the feed from main camera from the brig to his HUD. He knew what would happen, but anticipation only made him more eager to watch. In a few moments, he was up in the ventilation system, and then holding Laserbeak pinned down by both wings. She didn’t struggle: there was no point. Wings tense under his hands, she craned her neck to look at him.

“Heya, birdie, fancy meetin’ ya,” Jazz muttered. He replaced his right hand on her wing with his knee, and popped his wrist cable out with a flick of its spring mechanism.

The symbiont trembled when she saw that, probably priming all her firewalls to fight an intrusion.

“Relax, I don’t wanna hack ya,” Jazz said. “I just need to chat with yer boss. We have a situation. Patch me through, and nothin’s gonna hurt.”

He telegraphed his movements as he slowly opened a port at the nape of her neck (she didn’t try to peck his finger off) and plugged in his cable. He sent in a courteous ping for a comm link, and waited.

Laserbeak cooperated, her connection handshake as self-controlled as her frame was. Yet the first thing Jazz felt when he gained access to her surface feelings and thoughts, and she did his, was a flood of terror. Being held by her wings was a personal Pit for the little flier. Giving an Autobot the access to her spark bond was a wretched intrusion. She had the discipline to endure.

Jazz heard-sensed Soundwave’s message, _*Jazz: state conditions_.*

* _Let’s make it quick, so I can let your brave birdie go. We got one of your shuttles, the good one. I need the coordinates of his latest destination._ *

***

Red Alert watched Jazz crawl through the ventilation shafts. Before he caught up to the Decepticon spy, the security officer looped the old recording of the same vents still free of mechs, and forced himself to focus on the brig.

It pained him to do so. It literally did: his head hurt, his antennae tingled as they sparked, and his cables tensed up into dull aches all over his frame. But he - well, he didn’t _trust_ Jazz - yet he believed Jazz was, as of now, serving the Autobot interests. Whatever the saboteur would do to the little Decepticon sneak may not be pretty. Spec Ops could use plausible deniability.

Red Alert made a note to install more traps into the ventilation system. Yes, seeing that security hole hurt - but it hurt less than the free-floating anxiety of unspecified suspicions.

In the brig, Blast Off couldn’t take his optics off the ornamental blindfold Mirage was holding. His voice shook, but he managed haughty disdain: “Where do you think you are going with that, Autobot? Some pathetic prison rape scene? Or a real prison rape? Classy!” He scoffed and shook his head. “Mirage, always going for cliches.”

Mirage visibly winced, but didn’t respond to the taunt. “You are overheating,” he pointed out instead.

Red Alert saw that on the infrared. Their prisoner was… What? Excited despite his fear? Excited _because of_ his fear? Is that why they played these disgusting… Wait, hold on a nano. Is that why _Jazz_ had his vents running high watching these two at it?

Red Alert imagined converting his paranoia into lust, and shuddered. He’d be the perviest mech on the planet, always going around charged, maybe jumping any mech he suspected of a security breach. What would it feel like if he grabbed Optimus Prime’s hips (admittedly, _very nice_ hips) instead of ranting at the mech for leaving a door unlocked? Red Alert shuddered again. Nope, a million times nope! Headaches were the lesser evil.

“What is your point?” Blast Off inquired.

“Last time I tried this blindfold, you lasted half a klik.”

“Oh for crying out loud. You must have failed your Interrogation for Beginners course so badly. Let me explain, like I would a total newbie. When a _lover_ ” - Blast Off spit out the word like a curse - “uses a safe word, it means his sensations stopped being _fun_. When a prisoner spills intel, it means his sensations stopped being _bearable_. Even for mechs without any training, these are vastly different thresholds, which should be completely obvious to any moron with a half-clocked process-sssh…”

Blast Off’s vocalizer caught, spitting static as Mirage stepped close, the blindfold in his outstretched hand. The Decepticon whipped his head aside, banging his audio on the wall. Mirage climbed onto the berth to his left, casually leaning his hand on Blast Off’s raised knee, which strained but couldn’t escape the touch. He kneeled for better balance, then grabbed Blast Off’s helm by a protruding side-ridge and, winning a brief struggle, forcibly turned it toward himself. “It’s hot when you talk trash to me,” he said in an exaggerated breathy tone, then magnetized the blindfold over the prisoner’s optics, and planted an open-mouthed wet kiss on his cheek.

Riveted, Red Alert watched Blast Off _thrash_. He pulled on all magna-strips, rubbed the kiss off his cheek on his raised arm, heavy armor leaving his face in scratches, and then tried to pry the blindfold off the same way, sputtering unintelligible half-words.

The gems set in the blindfold scratched up his arm, deep enough to smart but not to bleed. In a few futile attempts, Blast Off stopped trying. He sat, vents whirring on high, silent and still except for an occasional shudder, facing Mirage with his now-sightless optics.

Blast Off reset his vocalizer, but his voice was still uneven. “Some mechs learn from words, but some are too dumb for that and need hands-on demonstrations. Yes, Autobot, you can make my frame react. Now see for yourself about those thresholds I tried to explain, so as to spare you some embarrassment.”

For his answer, Mirage lightly poked his finger into a transformation seam on Blast Off’s left side. The Decepticon winced away from the touch, arching to the right, then sat down as before. Mirage poked a seam under Blast Off’s arm next, making him tug on the cuff magnetized to the wall, and then proceeded to poke and prod, in places he must have known to be sensitive - because Blast Off kept wincing.

As soon as Mirage stopped, Blast Off wheezed, his vents straining to keep up with his overheating frame, “How very _clever_ of you, exploiting that your prisoner can’t see. Did you think of it all by yourself, or did you comm Jazz for instructions? Ooh, let me guess. Next, you’re going to tell me you’ll do the same thing with a shock prod, right? And then ask me if I am ready to talk.” Blast Off chuckled. “But your threat will sound quite weak, because between the two of us, shock prods scare you more.”

“I could do that, yes,” Mirage said, so quietly it was almost a whisper - and, in fact, pulled a suspicious round object, about the size of a scraplet, out of his subspace. Its non-metallic half fit snuggly into his palm. Its surface looked like insulation.

Red Alert braced himself. Blast Off, of course, didn’t; when the metal part of the sphere touched his audio with a loud electric crackle and sparks flying everywhere, he cried out and banged his helm on the wall.

“I could do that,” Mirage repeated, with grim determination. “Or I could skip what we both know you can handle, and hack you.”

***

Soundwave didn’t know the coordinates. He didn’t recall them even when Jazz shared a few creative ways to keep small flying spies contained. The best Soundwave could offer was the data on Shockwave’s lab within the former Tarn library. The layout of the building, the possible approach through the vents, the timing of patrols, and today’s access codes to consoles where the coordinates might be. No, Soundwave could not access these consoles remotely. No, he couldn’t just walk there, because he was under other orders for the rest of the day.

_*How do I know that’s not a trap?*_ Jazz asked.

_*Hostage release: not assured,*_ Soundwave countered.

Trust. Primus, they’d have to _trust_ one another, ‘Bot and ‘Con. Jazz tried not to think of how well that worked out for Mirage and Blast Off.

Jazz scanned Laserbeak to confirm there was no wing damage, gave her an energon cookie to replenish her strength, and released her, watching her leave the base. He sent the instructions to the pair of operatives nearest to Tarn. Two hours at least, if they made haste and didn’t get caught. He hoped Mirage would be faster.

Hacking, of course, didn’t _look_ like anything, Jazz reflected as he observed Mirage at work. Jazz returned to the security center just in time to handle Red Alert’s almost-meltdown about “breaking all Autobot regulations, prisoner treaties, and common decency” - on camera, in their brig!

“I am going to put Mirage in the cell next to the twins,” Red Alert proclaimed, ready to march off and do just that.

“Chill, mech! Here, drink some coolant. What torture - the round thing? It’s a ‘facin’ toy, like that blindfold.”

Jazz zoomed in on the object in question, still in Mirage’s hand, which Red Alert apparently hadn’t had the bolts to examine closely. The thick insulation was made of rich deep-purple velvet, and the metal part… Red Alert averted his optics from very faint, very pretty, very obscene engravings, and glared at Jazz as if he was manufacturing those things.

Jazz moved the camera to Mirage’s face. “Yeah yeah, don’t look at me like this, nobles get fancy, why wouldn’t they? A real shock weapon’s not gonna be all pretty like that, or have the lightnin’ and crackle effects just for show. This is safe; the real thing wouda burned Blast Off’s audio off. Hey, that...” _gives me an idea_ , he stopped himself from saying.

Mirage sat to the right of Blast Off, maybe to escape that wiggling left knee. Blast Off would not open his dataport covers, so now a small polished silvery square decorated the middle of the cell’s dull floor. Mirage had flicked it there, after breaking its locks and hinges with a small tool, a neat combination of a wedge jack and two electromagnets. A cable connected thus-opened port on Blast Off’s right hip to Mirage’s left wrist.

“Everythin’ Mirage had done before was just to distract Blast Off,” Jazz explained. “It’s easier to hack when the emotional matrix is overactive. It drains ya processing cycles. Ramped-up charge doesn’t help firewalls, either. Heads up, he might…”

As if on cue, Mirage shocked Blast Off again, this time bringing the electric ball to the middle of his abdomen, over a transformation seam. Blast Off jerked and cried out, but if he cursed or taunted his interrogator, it was over the cable.

“He was probably fightin’ an active defense just now, so he used the sensory net for added distraction,” Jazz commented.

“It must have worked.” Red Alert’s tone was dry as a vorn-old rust stick. He pointed at the screen with the faces, and froze the image - Mirage with a tiny smile, Blast Off scowling.

For all his light words, Jazz wasn’t of a very different mind from the security officer. They could dance around excuses all they wanted - these two being kinky lovers, using their old toys - but in simple truth, this was hacking under torture.

Just watching it was bad enough that Red had to do his calming breathing and Jazz had to take little escapist breaks in his fantasies.

What was Mirage doing? The frontal assault on Blast Off’s long-term memory banks would probably take days - that’s where the firewalls, virus traps, and active defenses were the strongest. Mirage could try to access working memory and sift through traces of recent exchanges. Or maybe…

Jazz received a ping for a remote uplink on the Spec Ops frequency, and opened the connection. He hesitated, then decided against sharing with Red Alert. The mech looked both exhausted and jumpy. A datastream that violent could trigger his glitch.

Instead, Jazz said, “I’m sure hackin’ is gonna take a while. Mirage will keep me updated if there’s progress. Ya can take over some other cameras for a bit - take a break from this slag?” he offered. “Or watch, whatever’s easier on ya.”

Red Alert gave him an intent, suspicious look, with a few sparks escaping his antennas, but then nodded and pushed his chair to another monitor bank. Jazz checked a few times, but Red didn’t seem to sneak any glances his way, or attempt to slave Jazz’s monitor to his. Instead, he pulled up schematics for - oh! Air vent security. Jazz chuckled to himself.

He plugged a cable into the console to rout the sounds directly to his system, so that Red wouldn’t listen any more. He focused on the faces of the two mechs, and the datastream of Blast Off’s inner fortress under siege.

Oooh, interesting… Mirage wasn’t trying to access long-term _or_ working memory. He was - wait - what was he - why?!


	6. Butterfly Nets

Even with Blast Off hot and bothered - and afraid, and mildly electrocuted - it had taken Mirage almost an hour just to get past his surface defenses. The Decepticons didn’t frag around when it came to data security. It felt like fighting Soundwave in person: a fatal experience for most who tried.

It started at the data cable port, booby-trapped with a shocker, and not of the toy variety. The magnetic parts of Mirage’s break-in tool had managed to trigger and then disarm that barrier before it could fry his plug.

The battle only grew fiercer from there. Mirage’s routines had blocked massive data floods generating enough white noise to drown his memory banks. He’d intercepted and destroyed a swarm of individual viruses; that felt like his processor had survived a scraplet infestation. By the time he’d dismantled the enormous firewall, he’d been wrung exhausted.

Yet all that had only amounted to the first handshake. It would have taken a few nanokliks, if they had plugged their cables consensually. Just because Mirage was familiar with the system didn’t mean it was much easier to fight, just like having hugged someone wouldn’t automatically lead to an easy win in a wrestling match.

Mirage took a brief pause to let his routines secure his foothold, to patch Jazz into the datastream, and to code a little Trojan he’d need if the next part of his plan worked. And to consider that next part. He’d been taught to use physical analogies for data; in these terms, he’d just fought a desperate battle to gain a measly unnamed foothill. Before him, their heads in the stratosphere, stood the impenetrable sheer cliffs of the Manganese Mountains. Given time, tools, and training, he could climb every one - but he only had two out of the three. So he took a deep vent and dived into a well-hidden cave.

In literal terms, he focused his next attack on the system that managed memory retrieval. Not to grab the memories - those were defended so well it would have taken him days to break through - but to gain control of the retrieval itself. Not any fine control, either: he only blocked Blast Off from recalling anything from the last few hours.

To switch analogies, this wasn’t like gaining access to a hostile network, but like cutting a router out of it with wire scissors. A simple, inelegant, brutal operation. When Mirage was done, he was sitting next to a Blast Off who remembered everything up to his landing, and after that could only draw a blank.

Mirage let go of the memory block and immediately released his Trojan. The subroutine ran several billion cycles, emulating a period filled only with the fake background noise of stasis. Now Blast Off’s chrono thought it was much later: five hours past the doom deadline. Mirage held his vents, waiting to see how that worked.

Blast Off thrashed anew, cursing in a shockingly crude manner, until Mirage sat astride his right leg and silenced him with an aggressive, demanding, harsh kiss that ended with a bite on the lower lip that drew energon.

Blast Off whimpered, a strangely tender sound, then asked, “Where am I?” turning his blindfolded head all around, and no doubt running all the scanners he had. Which would only report an empty room with a locked door, a bright light, and a few cameras.

“Just a little place I rented for the scene,” Mirage said, massaging cables in Blast Off’s raised arms and shoulders to ease the strain of his struggles against the cuffs. “You came back distraught from your last mission, and the Autobots ambushed you on landing - your hands? Yeah. You went hand-to-hand with the frontliner twins and broke some fingers on their faces before the Decepticon reinforcements arrived. After your debriefing and the medbay, you comm-ed me, said you had several days off and wanted to _forget_ for a time. And that it was a good opportunity for me to try and be the dom for a whole big scene. I hacked you just like you asked: a removable memory block on the last battle, comms off, then some stasis time to let your systems settle. You are very _cute_ in stasis!” Mirage said, giving Blast Off another kiss on the lips, this time tender - and somewhat reciprocated. “I tied you up before the stasis wore off. And here we are.”

“Remove the blindfold,” Blast Off said, his voice staticky with charge.

“You are not giving orders this time, darling,” Mirage drawled. “You are my prisoner, and I will do what I want to you.”

“Remove the blindfold, _please,”_ Blast Off said, his tone mock-meek to match the scene, with the addition of his usual irony - and that’s when Mirage knew his subterfuge was working. So far.

“Mmm, let me think,” Mirage said, pretend-thoughtful, then mocked, “How about - no?” He switched to his regular, out-of-character voice. “I want to see what you will do for me. To find your edge and take you beyond.”

Blast Off’s engine revved up, echoing in the small empty room. Mirage felt a splash of his EM field - _so hot_! His spark contracted. They’d wanted to try this for a while: not just a little bit at a time, like a blindfold, but a scene with Mirage dominating. He’d doubted his abilities, and today he’d learned Blast Off had, too. Mirage had been fearing it, researching it, looking forward to it - to helping Blast Off unwind, forget, and get all excited. Hot all over, like he was now...

And now? Mirage ex-vented, and then forced the reality out of his headspace: the Autobot brig, his hostile hack, and Jazz listening in. All that was gone; here was his lover, himself, and the prisoner edge play he had planned.

Blast Off wouldn’t give up so easily, of course. “What is my safe word?” he demanded.

“You didn’t give me any. Said I am a soft-sparked Autobot and you don’t need that.” Mirage laughed. “But did you think I would do… this?”

He wiggled his fingertip along the same sensitive transformation seam on Blast Off’s side that he’d poked earlier. Blast Off tried to move away, then chuckled, then cycled a vent. “What, are you going to torture me into submission with tickling?” he inquired, but it sounded like a good-natured jab. And he didn’t ask for a safe word again. Whew.

“It gets worse,” Mirage promised, to Blast Off’s easy laughter. He gently patted the silvery midsection to warn Blast Off where he’d “attack” next, then brought the electric toy to the same spot. Blast Off winced, but didn’t cry out - just chuckled some more.

He was so relaxed, so trusting. It was enough to break Mirage’s spark.

Even with Skyfire on his way, they didn’t know how far beyond Messatine the planet was. Blast Off’s travel time gave them upper limits on the distance, but Mirage had to hurry - without making the scene completely unrealistic.

“I am going to interrogate you,” he announced. “For a piece of real intel, too. We haven’t done that before, lover. It will be _fun_. What are the coordinates of the planet you have visited?”

Over the cable, he sent a text message - which Jazz would see as well. They usually exchanged out-of-character chat that way. :: _It’s too late for the Autobots to do anything about it. Still, I wanted this to be somewhat real. You okay with that?_ ::

So much depended on the answer! Mirage hoped Blast Off would mistake the dread in his field for apprehension about playing a new role. That was close enough to the truth; just the way plausible _play_ was supposed to run.

The pause stretched, and then Blast Off said, in the haughty voice of a stubborn Decepticon prisoner - yesss, in-character! - “You will never make me talk. Go interface yourself in your exhaust pipe, Autobot!”

Their stock scene-phrase made Mirage flinch almost as badly as the first time Blast Off had spoken it. Yet the show had to go on. He stroked Blast Off’s interface panel, warning where he’d attack next, then shocked it with the toy - once, twice - and then left the toy there, crackling and buzzing, attached by a magna-strip. Light pain that gradually transformed into heat-tingle; Mirage knew exactly how that felt. After all, they _had_ played a lot of interrogation scenes.

***

What eventually made Blast Off talk was more sensory deprivation. Primus below, _Jazz_ suggested that - the one time he said anything to Mirage during the whole ordeal. Well, Mirage’s ordeal - Blast Off enjoyed himself immensely and even overloaded, what with buzzing, sparking, or vibrating toys now attached to all the good places. Overloaded, twice. Mirage knew his lover’s frame so well.

Mirage greatly appreciated his commander’s trust and discretion. Also, the lack of any distractions in a situation already complicated, messed up, and precarious.

Jazz had Blaster send one of his symbionts down to the brig with the devices, normally used for recording music. Mirage pretended to go to the next room for more toys while he picked the things from Eject, avoiding his and Bumblebee’s optics for a flimsy illusion of privacy.

He came back and paced for a while; Blast Off unerringly tracked him by sound, turning his head to face Mirage’s footsteps. He must have dialed up his audios’ sensitivity, because he was tracking even smaller movements much better than when Mirage had first blindfolded him.

The spy turned the two small black boxes on, and heard their low buzz. He brought one to his own audio; it completely cancelled all other soundwaves and replaced them with background white noise.

“What’s that?” Blast Off rasped, still hoarse from screaming his last overload. He’d always been loud in berth. _Shoot me dead_ , Mirage thought - now Autobot command knew about that, too.

But Mirage had no time to dwell on this grotesque abuse of intimacy, or what his commanders would think of a mech capable of such for their cause - or what their silent acceptance of his methods implied about the cause. “Tell me the coordinates, _now_ ,” Mirage commanded, in the ice-cold voice he’d perfected over the last hour - his imitation of a fun cartoon interrogator. He waited half a klik, then attached one sound-cancelling box to Blast Off’s left audio.

The Decepticon tensed up, pleading for real for the first time. “You wouldn’t do that! Mirage? Why would you do that?”

 _Because a planet full of sentients is at stake_ , Mirage didn’t say. He lacked the edge of cruelty it would have taken to push that hard in mere play. Whether that made Mirage a better or worse dom for Blast Off, he’d never learn, not after this. He just attached the second device, watched Blast Off writhe and eventually begin to moan as if in pain, waited - waited, ice-cold on the inside - then removed one of the devices.

“Talk, Decepticon,” he said. “I want to break you, and I will. It is just a matter of time. If you don’t talk now, I will take away your hearing again. And then I will attach my disruptor to you, set to block everything, both ways. Do you know how that feels? That feels almost as if you _have no frame at all_. Maybe I will leave you like that for an hour or so, and go watch a vid?”

It wouldn’t really feel like the frame-less spark prison had - Blast Off would still be able to twitch his body, after all. Still, that was one of the cruelest things Mirage had ever said to another mech. Blast Off whimpered, then mumbled, clearly out of character, “Stop this, Mirage, don’t. That’s too far.”

Mirage also switched to his usual mild tone. “Please, Blast Off, you are so close. I will take you over the edge! Everybody thinks I am too weak and soft, the Autobots really do, and even you tease me about it. Please, this is important to me. My first time - I want to do this right!” And then repeated, in his pretend-interrogator tone, sliding the sound-cancelling box just under Blast Off’s audio, “Talk, Decepticon.”

Blast Off did, then screamed and overloaded again.

***

In the end, the Autobots were too late. Not by much, maybe five or six hours: the planet didn’t look cyberformed yet when Skyfire entered the high orbit, but it wasn’t _organic_ anymore. Whatever sentients, plants, and microscopic critters had been there… Jazz sighed heavily, watching the transmitted recording of the violently shifting landscape.

He offlined his optics and rubbed his forehead. One of Jazz’s operatives had been captured on the way out, but not because Soundwave had lied about access to the lab. Most likely, he'd known the cyberforming schedule. The intel he'd traded held no security risk. No need to lie. Neither had Blast Off lied about the coordinates, though he’d either lied about two days, or had been given the wrong timeframe by his officers.

It didn’t matter to the inhabitants of the planet. Nothing would, ever again. Jazz forced himself to watch, in memorial.

Seven days ago he hadn’t known these aliens existed; now he struggled not to sink into the abyss of blaming himself for the death of each and every one. So as not to fall to pieces, he set a part of his mind on a very different track.

Blast Off and Mirage. The hot thing they’d had going gave Jazz ideas, but neither of the two had seemed in any way prepared for what had happened. When Blast Off had fallen into stasis after his last overload, Mirage had cleaned him up, removed his memory block, called Ratchet to check on him, and begged the medic to put the prisoner in a longer-term stasis. They had hastily exchanged the unconscious Blast Off for the captured operative. The shuttle’s team would have to deal with his fallout. Jazz’s responsibility was Mirage.

Jazz’s other screen held Mirage, curled up on the berth under a pile of blankets. He was in the small quiet room Spec Ops had for when a mech came back messed up from a slagged mission. Bumblebee would watch over him next; Jazz hoped that by then the pile of blankets would have stopped shuddering and sobbing.

Jazz returned to the feed from the unfortunate planet. Life could be short; there was no guarantee he'd be alive next year, next month, tomorrow. Would he live to see peace? He continued to watch the screen, but his feed wasn't what he saw. He saw a dream, a fantasy, a vision he had held secret for so very long. A proposition he could extend, an offer he could make. To his counterpart. To the enemy.

It was a challenge. Live before you die, dare to reach out. Don't trust, expect cruelty (Mirage-level and beyond: high-grade nightmares between two equals at the top of their game). Each interface could be a hostile hack, each liaison could end his life.

Challenge proposed... Challenge accepted?

He had not decided yet when and how to tell Mirage he’d also obtained the coordinates via Soundwave. Definitely after they’d taken Mirage off the suicide watch. Given how risky the spy’s approach to interrogating his lover had been, he would understand the need for Plan B. Mirage’s plan might have failed, or taken much longer. As it was, the operatives comm-ed the data from the lab a couple of kliks past the time Blast Off talked.

Mirage would understand, once he was again his own poised, reserved, controlled self.


End file.
